


A Sequence Well-Trodden

by Olivehide



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar (2000), Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Battle of Lewisham (1977), Explicit Language, Fluff, Happy Ending, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Jesus has Tattoos, Jesus is a Stoner, Judas is a Punk, Judas is called Jude, M/M, Slice of Life, jerome pradon and his beautiful face forced me to write this, so did my friend vic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29158956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olivehide/pseuds/Olivehide
Summary: Jude wants to look at Jesus' tattoos.
Relationships: Jesus Christ & Judas Iscariot, Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	A Sequence Well-Trodden

**Author's Note:**

> For Vic and Sky, and the multilayered, multiverse JCS Netflix spin-off series they conceived together xxx

Jesus snuffed out his joint in the clay pot on his bedside table.

He hadn’t finished it, but he was feeling pleasantly heavy. He noticed his Money Tree on the windowsill, the bulbous leaves in particular, and how they might taste if he sunk his teeth into them. He noticed his oil painting, still drying and clamped tight on its easel from earlier that morning, and the colours rippled across the canvas; limbs and clouds and water turned amorphous through the lens of a few drags, and Jesus found they looked better in the sunset. Yes, this was one of his favourite strains. Despite the smallness of the room, Jude was tailing him through every movement with a similar weighty step, keeping so close as to not lose sight or scent of him.

Jesus hadn’t really thought about the journey from the demonstration back to the house and into his room, and he hadn’t really thought about the splitting off from Matt and Simone at Clifton Rise, and Jude staying with him. It felt right, he supposed, it felt like running with a script. The air had been thick with screams and acrid orange smoke, and Jude had been punched in the head by someone through the mist, so Jesus took his hand and ran away before Jude could retaliate. He knew Jude would follow him, because he always did, eventually. After running turned to laboured walking, they’d talked about the calamity that was the National Front March until they couldn’t stand to anymore, and both men had lit up to calm themselves down. With smoking came gentle conversation, of what was on at the pictures next weekend and the intrigue of Jesus’ tattoos, where finger-touches and fond looks came like breathing again. It all felt far more important, after the chaos and violence at Lewisham.

“Your room smells different.” Jude said, shirking off his leather jacket. He tossed it at the hook on the door with no effort to accuracy, and it crumpled to the floor like a bin bag. Jesus began to unzip his platform boots; the action felt tingly through his fingers. “Good I hope?”

Jude looked around, giving his nose the full tour. Hints of cannabis were a mainstay, he had come to understand, infused in pillows and dog-eared posters and books stacked high on patterned carpet. He nodded. “It’s spicy.” He said.

Jesus hummed. “It’s incense,”. He pulled off his shoes and lined them up at the foot of his bed. “Earthy Sandalwood flavour.” Jude followed behind him, his knuckles pressed to the back of the man’s loose shirt. “You’re burning sandals now?” He whispered. Jesus didn’t grace him with a response. Soft as they were, the knuckles on his spine felt like a brand in his flesh, and he couldn’t think about much else. Jude moved closer still, the adrenaline of being hit in the head spurring his feelings to action; he wrapped a hand around Jesus’ stomach.

“Show me your tattoos.” He said into the groove of his shoulder.

Jesus wasted no time in taking off his top and lying face-up on the bed. Jude wasted no time in sitting on top of him, his leather trousers squeaked through the laborious motion of straddling. His chain necklaces jingled self-consciously in the quiet of the empty house. Jesus giggled at the sound. He giggled at Jude. Again, this felt right, it felt like a sequence well-trodden. Unbuckling his studded bracelet, Jude took a moment to run his eyes over the skin beneath him. The warm glow of the setting sun made Jesus look like soft gold, and his face was flushed with peach. _Sunkissed_ came to Jude’s mind. Then _ink on canvas_. Jesus’ chest was a slim but mighty landscape of dips and curves and pointy bone, peppered with fresh and faded tattoos of many a shape and style. And Jude couldn’t believe he had never seen it before.

Jude whistled. “What a spread.” He tossed his bracelet over his shoulder to an unknown landing. Jesus smiled, looking away. “This feels so strange,”. A golden curl fell in front of his eyes. “Like déjà vu, perhaps.” Jude brushed the hair from the man’s face, trailing his fingers back down his neck and resting on his chest. “There’s not another anarcho-punk boy I don’t know about?”

Jesus closed his eyes to Jude’s touch. “Mm, just you.”

“Just me.” Jude said back to himself. His hands found Jesus’ waist, two snakes dipping their heads on his hip bones, and he took hold softly. _Just his, only his_. “So,” He began, sticking out his bottom lip. “Thoughts on the weed agenda?”

Jesus snorted.

“Cannabis use is a form of spiritual practice.” He recited.

“Fuck yeah it is.”

Jesus scrunched his brow from the profanity, and Jude smiled over him.

“Still don’t like that?”

“No, not so much.”

“No wonder you hate the Sex Pistols.”

Jesus’ wiggled in protest. “I don’t hate- I like what they’re saying, just not how they’re saying it.”

“Try it.”

“Try what?”

“Say fuck, go on.”

Jesus grinned. “I will _not_.” He slid his hands onto the other man’s knees. It felt like the right thing to do, it felt like an anchor. Or an armchair. Jude smiled wider.

“I can bargain down to dickhead.” He said, softer now that he was leaning in closer.

“I thought you wanted to talk about my tattoos.”

“Did I say talk?”

Jude closed the distance and kissed Jesus on the forehead; the other man hummed, soothed in the warmth of the contact and its familiarity. Jude worked his mouth across the man’s face in small, slow pecks, as his hands embarked from the hips and charted the torso below him. His fingers bore searing paths across the skin. His lips found Jesus’ ear, giving the lobe a nip in greeting. “ _Judas_ ” Jesus said in his head. Jude whispered into it: “ _Bollocks_ ”, drawing out the _S_ like the wily hiss of a snake. Jesus sucked in a breath, the word shivering all the way down to the tips of his fingers. It was delightfully invasive. Jude whispered again. “ _Wanker_.” 

Jesus cocked his head away and laughed, kneading his ear into his shoulder to satiate the tingle.

“That _tickles_.” He said.

Jude reeled back, but his hands kept exploring, tracing the sun tattoo about Jesus’ navel with his index finger. “See, profanity can be so sexy.”

“I find _wordplay_ to be the love language of intellectuals.”

The other man blinked, slack-jawed. “You’re a gay pothead, and I slash tires and hate the royals.”

“Yes? That doesn’t mean we have to swear.”

“If you want to be heard, you do.”

Jesus raised his chin. “People listen to me.”

Jude smiled, his fingers marking out the path of black-blue stars up the man’s stomach. “People _follow_ you. And most of them fancy you. Call the MET a bunch of neo-Nazi cunts and _then_ they’ll listen, but no one rallies for clever limericks.”

Jesus sucked in his cheeks. On a regular day, they’d debate about this, but Jesus was feeling quite out of passion for anything else but Jude and his ripped black t-shirt. He raised a finger, conducting his words: “ _There was a young fellow from Leeds-“_

“For fuck’s sake.” Jude cocked his head back. Jesus smiled, satisfied, working his hands up the other man’s thighs. They found purchase at the pockets of his trousers and he hooked a few fingers in each; the leather felt squishy as he tugged at it. Jude’s thumb was tracing a tattoo on Jesus’ side, a few lines of neat script dancing across his ribcage.

“This is Hebrew.” He said. Jesus’s chest rose from the contact; every touch from Jude felt like the strokes of an open flame, but the ribs were especially tender. He blew a shaky sigh from his nose. “Mm, can you read it?”

Jude leaned closer, framing the text with his hand. It was a small, dense typeface, and his Hebrew was rusty at best; it was something he’d learned and loved as a child, something that had slipped from relevance as he grew up and grew apart from his father’s ideologies. He remembered the Star of David dangling from his earlobe. Jesus had his on a silver chain around his neck, Jude had just discovered. He ran his finger across the words, mouthing the sounds in silence, and Jesus watched his lips move.

“Is this the Mourner’s Kaddish?” Jude said a few moments later, leaning back. Again, his hands stayed on the other man’s body, always connected in some way. Jesus smiled to himself, bringing his hand up to touch the words. “Just the verse about abundant peace, yes, it’s for my mother.” _It’s for myself_ , Jesus said in his head. At times, the prayer felt akin to ancient sorrow, something larger than the loss of a singular person. It was impossible to explain aloud. Jude nodded slowly, threading their fingers together.

“I’ve never seen Aramaic on the body before.”

“You wouldn’t really. It’s a bit taboo. Tattoos, I mean.”

Jude grinned. “Well, we’re not the most _orthodox_ of Jews…” He brought Jesus’ hand to his lips and planted a kiss on each knuckle; they spelled out **_LOVE_** in thick, capital letters. He looked Jesus in the eyes. “You’ve got a cock-shaped bong.”

Jesus laughed quite explosively at that, whipping his free hand up to cover his mouth. Jude felt the laughter in his thighs, and he made a profound effort not to rearrange his crutch, for both their sakes. The phallic bong was a terrible present from Jesus’ housemate, Peter, and Jude had made a game of mentioning it at least once every couple of days. It stood erect on the windowsill above the bed, translucent and green like an inappropriate jelly mould. Jesus hadn’t the nerve to use it, but he couldn’t throw it away. It was a gift, after all. A distinct display of kindness.

“Just _take_ it, Jude. Tell Peter you stole it from me.” Jesus pleaded, he was only half-joking.

Jude took the man’s hand, now in possession of both; Jesus didn’t mind at all.

“But that would be _wrong_.” He whispered into his palms.

Jesus wiggled his fingers. “That feels nice.”

“Does it now?” Jude whispered again, his hot breath licked at Jesus’ skin. Jesus only _Mmm_ ’d back.

Jude held them there for a moment, his mouth just breathing into Jesus’ hands, his thumbs soothing the delicate skin on his wrists, until he moved them to cup his own face. Jesus breathed in, surprised. Thinking of all the hours he had looked at Jude’s face over the years, holding it in his hands felt like seeing him de novo. Stubble prickled his palms, clammy heat built at his fingertips. He could feel Jude’s jaw under his skin, how it couldn’t decide whether to clench or relax to the sensation of being held. Jesus brushed his thumbs over the man’s dimples, then over the bruise on his forehead, blooming to a watery rose. It was a different sort of intimacy, both men seemed to understand, because it was Jesus touching Jude. An action Jesus had often felt was hard to broach, and often felt Jude had never considered for himself. Jesus wanted to let him know it was alright, it was okay to be touched this way, but all he could think to say was “ _Jude_.” Jude shut his eyes, relaxing his head a little more, and Jesus felt the extra weight in his palms.

Without realising it, night had come, and an eager moon swathed the room in a fervent quiet. Jude’s black hair turned deep blue, as did his t-shirt. Jesus wondered what new shades his painting had adopted, but the thought dissipated quick enough. This moment was about the man in his hands, about his beautiful hair that Jesus forbid him from buzzing off, about the black liner smeared under his eyes like the warpaint of youth, about that little cleft on his chin, about a lot of other features he just couldn’t describe. Two men laid bare and human and entirely themselves. Jude opened his eyes and he looked at Jesus’ mouth first.

“Woah, déjà vu.” He said.

It seemed as good a time as any to have their first kiss.

And both men found it very familiar indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to Hell, and Judas will be waiting with a slow clap and a fat blunt.
> 
> Jokes aside, this was all in good, queer fun, so please don't come for my ass!
> 
> Bonus, Jude on Jesus' olive tree tattoo:
> 
>   
> Jude traced the shape with his nail, drawing its silhouette.
> 
> “And this one? The…apple tree?”
> 
> Jesus smiled. “Olive tree.”
> 
> “What does it mean?”
> 
> A betrayal, Jesus said in his head. He blinked the thought away.
> 
> “Just a tree. I got it after visiting Andalusia. It’s beautiful there, and they grow literally millions of olive trees.”
> 
> Jude smirked. “And you love olives that much?”
> 
> “With olives comes tapenade.”
> 
> “Jesus, you’re so fucking gay.”
> 
> “Jude.”


End file.
